


Where There’s Smoke

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, But he’s a good guy, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Greg in his football kit, Greg moves a bit fast, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pining, Pre-Canon, Silver Fox Greg Lestrade, Smoking, Smut, Sort Of, You’ll see, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: After Mycroft Holmes enters NSY to thank the man who saved his brother from himself, he finds he is the one who needs saving from his fantasies about a certain Detective Inspector.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	Where There’s Smoke

The click-click-click of his wingtips was masked by the scuttle of uniformed officers drinking coffee, chatting, and leading witnesses of various and sundry minor crimes around the precinct. Mycroft hated not making an impression. He cleared his throat pointedly, anticipating the masses in the drab green corridor would part like the Red Sea. They did not, and after several long moments of waiting, he had to push and shove his way along to the detective’s bullpen. Dreadful. He could hardly believe filial duty required this level of personal engagement. And yet, here he was: paused outside the office of one, er—he checked his notes—Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He lifted his umbrella, and just as he knocked with the handle, the door swung open and a slack jawed someone or other was struck square on the nose. 

‘Oi!’ The man clutched his face with far more drama than the occasion required, at least in Mycroft’s opinion, and backed toward the desk in the centre of the room. 

‘Anderson, why are you still standing in my bloody—Christ! What’s happened to your nose?!’

Yes, alright. Mycroft conceded that the blood trickling down from this Anderson’s chin onto the hideous patterned carpet did warrant some measure of concern. 

‘It isn’t broken, mate,’ the other man—clearly the Detective Inspector himself—declared after a cursory examination. ‘Go on and get cleaned up, then get on with it. And brief me on your progress with the Wilkins case before you head out.’

Anderson frowned, obviously having hoped he would be dismissed for the day, and muttered under his breath as he passed Mycroft still standing in the doorway. If ‘wanker’ was the worst thing he was called before sundown, it would be a banner day, indeed. 

The D.I. resumed his seat, then whipped a tissue out of the box perched at the corner of the desk, and wiped away droplets of blood with weary resignation. He straightened his inbox, sliding a new manilla file onto his calendar blotter. As he began a cursory read of its contents, he released a grunt and a sigh. 

‘What d’you want, then?’ He didn’t even raise his eyes. Mycroft wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. He settled for clearing his throat. This Lestrade shifted his attention to the doorway, frowning at the unfamiliar figure continuing to occupy the threshold. 

‘Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I presume.’ It was not a question, but Mycroft could not avoid a slight indulgence of imperialist sentiment. He did so enjoy making it known who was in charge, though he would never admit that, especially to his brother. _His brother. Right._

Mycroft closed the door behind himself as he entered the room and, in a fit of uncharacteristic distraction, hesitated. The Detective Inspector was, simply put, beautiful. Silver-white hair haloed by the desperate early-spring sunlight streaming in behind him, chestnut eyes unabashedly soaking in every element of Mycroft’s presence. It had been ages since he had taken the time to find someone attractive, but this man—this man demanded it. 

‘Can I help you?’ There was laughter in the Detective’s eyes, something kind and congenial. Mycroft felt a tiny shard of ice melt off his heart. How dreadfully inconvenient. 

‘It appears you already have,’ he began, mentally chiding himself for the momentary lapse. ‘My name is Mycroft Holmes, I believe you have recently encountered my brother, Sherlock?’

‘Ahh, yeah. Poor bloke was all drugged out, but he still managed to run linguistic circles around my lot. Heard he was moved to a private hospital… now I can see how that happened.’ He nodded at Mycroft’s suit, the cost of which Mycroft had not even bothered learning. Announcing the price of one’s possessions was an act of nouveau riche vanity. _Common._

‘How’s he been getting on?’ the D.I. continued. The quirk of his right index finger on the paper before him signaled sincerity, a trait Mycroft rarely encountered. 

‘My brother has recovered from his _indulgence_ and assured me—yet again—that he has had his fill of illicit substances. If only he would give up cigarettes, he would be a saint,’ he added sarcastically.

‘Yeah, him and me both,’the Detective mumbled, fingering the outline of a nicotine patch through his shirt sleeve. ‘So you’re here to say thank you, then? Or is there something else I can do for you?’

‘While I do wish to express my gratitude for your delicate handling of the situation, I also come bearing a request. Allow my brother to consult for you.’

The D.I. laughed properly now. Even through his incredulity, the sound was like morning steam rising from a quiet lake. It hung in the air, promising warmth to come, tempting an impossible touch. 

‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. You want me to let a 20-something cocaine addict, brilliant as he may be, consult on active police cases? Mr Holmes-’

‘Mycroft.’ He didn’t know why he said it. 

‘Mycroft, I appreciate your faith in your brother, but I don’t think-’

‘Detective Inspector, I’m afraid I haven’t made myself understood. Sherlock Holmes will be your new civilian consultant,’ he withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket which did not bear so much as a single crease, ‘and I believe you will quickly come to find him invaluable.’ Mycroft handed the envelope over, watching as the Detective’s mouth first frowned, and then dropped open, at its contents. Mycroft stepped backward, opening the door to the bullpen.

‘You will find my card included, should you need to contact me regarding my brother’s progress _._ He will be released from his rehabilitation program two weeks from Thursday; I suggest you contact him then. As he is so fond of reminding me, he prefers to text.’ Mycroft had one foot through the doorway of the D.I.’s office when the voice behind him called out. 

‘And you?’

‘Call me.’

Mycroft strode out the way he had come. There must have been something more forbidding in his manner this time, for civilians and uniformed officers alike dove out of this path. His glower secured an elevator to himself, and in minutes, he was on the street before the precinct, awaiting the arrival of the black sedan pulling around the corner. 

He slipped his hand into an overcoat pocket, rummaged for a moment, and withdrew a single cigarette. As he lifted it to his lips, his brain began a mocking chant: _Call me. Call me. Call me._ He tore the cigarette in two and chucked it into the nearest bin. When the car pulled up, he did not wait for the driver to open the rear door. 

‘Where to, Sir?’

Mycroft sat in silence. There was nowhere else he wanted to go.

•§•

‘I think you’d better see this…’

Mycroft loathed ducking beneath police tape; it was wholly undignified. As he followed the D.I. out of range of the flashing lights, he sneered extra hard at the gathered officers to make up for his embarrassment. They turned away quickly, restoring balance to the scene. 

‘You said over the phone that my brother was behaving oddly. Is he in much trouble? I didn’t see an ambulance.’

‘What? Oh, no, no. It’s nothing like that! He’s here consulting. Only, he’s…’ the Detective trailed off, mouth shaping words his brain couldn’t quite find. 

‘Mr Lestrade, I don’t have all afternoon. I understand that you’re concerned for my brother’s well-being. I assure you, so am I. But if we might get on with it?’

Mycroft didn’t know why he was pushing to conclude his business with the Detective Inspector. When he called, and it was made clear that whatever issues had arisen around his brother were not dire, Mycroft had allowed himself the luxury of eschewing several hours worth of meetings to attend to the matter personally. This could almost certainly be handled over the phone. Dare he admit to himself that his presence had less to do with Sherlock’s welfare, and more to do with the man quirking grey eyebrows as he determined whether Mycroft was a terribly busy and important man, or just a rude sod?

‘He’s through here,’ Lestrade conceded, leading Mycroft into the bakery that had been cordoned off, no doubt due to the pair of bodies lying haphazardly upon the floor of the cafe area. 

True to form, Sherlock was indeed behaving oddly. His ridiculous coat flapped around him as he flitted from one corner to the next, speaking rapidly to himself and… licking things. Not confections or breads, but _things._ Tongs and paper bag bins, at the moment. No wonder he’d received this call. 

‘Is this… I mean, could he be…’

‘Sherlock!’

‘Ah, Mycroft.’ Sherlock greeted his brother with a small sideways nod. ‘To what do I owe the _pleasure_?’

‘Why are you licking the furnishings, Sherlock?’ Mycroft admonished, leaning heavily on his umbrella. ‘I’m quite sure this is not what Detective Inspector Lestrade had in mind when he agreed to take you on.’

‘ _Take me on._ I’m not a child, Mycroft. If I see fit to lick the bloody cadaver, I will!’

‘You bloody well won’t!’ Lestrade chimed in, crossing his arms for all the world like a frustrated father. 

Sherlock’s lips pouted in an expression of ‘don’t tempt me,’ to which Mycroft’s hairline lowered to say, ‘don’t ruin this for yourself, Sherlock.’ The Detective Inspector shifted his gaze between the two of them, in plain wonder at this silent communication.

‘You really are brothers, aren’t you?’

And he laughed, that steam-off-the-surface chuckle that reverberated in Mycroft’s sternum. Mycroft found himself smiling in return, and he didn’t know what on earth to do about it. He settled for sarcasm. 

‘It is what our parents would have us believe. Sherlock, may I speak with you a moment?’ His left eyebrow lifted, clearly signalling that this was not a request. He stepped off to the side, out of the D.I.’s earshot. For all that he enjoyed annoying his brother, he did not actually wish to embarrass him. 

‘What is it, _brother mine?_ ’ Sherlock hissed as he approached, hands petulantly shoved into his coat pockets. ‘Plan to tell me to stop breathing at crime scenes as well?’

‘Don’t be childish, Sherlock. This is the perfect opportunity for you to develop a rapport with proper detectives, and-’

‘I _am_ a proper detective. These people-’

‘-have resources, Sherlock. They have access to information and equipment that you do not. If this Detective Inspector vouches for you, you may even secure yourself space in a laboratory, perhaps at one of the local hospitals.’

‘Why are you so—oh. _Oh._ You’re keen on Lestrade! That’s what all this is about. You don’t actually care if I lick a few pastry bins, or the floor for that matter. You just don’t want me making a fool of you by association. Well, that does change things, doesn’t it? Suppose I were to-’

‘My motivations are none of your concern. Just… don’t screw this up.’ Mycroft stalked toward the pavement, exiting the crime scene without a backward glance. Thankfully, his car was facing away from the melee, and he slid into the backseat before being forced to face the reality of what Sherlock had said. He reached into his overcoat pocket and rolled a loose cigarette between his fingertips. _Keen._ Mycroft hadn’t been _keen_ on anyone since secondary school. And if his mounting attraction to this Lestrade person was a factor in his stopping Sherlock from crude behaviour, well then, they would all be the better for it. As for his own comportment in the presence of the D.I., that was another matter entirely. Mycroft crushed the cigarette in his fist. He needed to get ahold of himself.

•§•

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Mycroft had heard from Detective Inspector Lestrade. He hated that he knew that, almost as much as he hated himself for standing in his kitchen at two in the morning, eating leftover steak and Stilton pie directly out of its disposable baking tin. As if the hour wasn’t bad enough, he knew full well what the excess of lactose would do to his stomach in the intervening hours before sunrise. 

What had he been playing at, entertaining thoughts of Lestrade in any personal capacity? Mycroft was old beyond his years, and his years were creeping up as it was. The D.I. had not appeared impressed by Mycroft’s posh attitude or power. Though, he hadn’t seemed repelled by them either. He was simply indifferent. Except for that smile… No. Not going down that road. Sherlock’s teasing had not put him off, but his own self-assessment was doing the trick wonderfully. Power and wealth aside, Mycroft was a 40-year-old, somewhat overweight, extremely finicky, balding (yes, fine, there, he said it) almost former smoker with trust issues. _What a catch._

Meanwhile, his research into Gregory Lestrade—he had done his due diligence, for Sherlock’s sake, of course—had turned up a far more worthy man. He needed to know that the person attempting to corral his far too fragile younger brother was an appropriately moral sort, capable of command and flexibility as the situation demanded. What he had not needed to know, but felt compelled to find out, was that Lestrade was separated from his wife, had no children, and was currently living alone. And he was handsome. Good god, was he handsome. The dossier photos could have gotten him work as an actor, though nothing compared to the twinkle of mischief in his eyes when he—

Mycroft snapped back to reality at the sound of his fork hitting the floor. He sighed heavily at the pain in his lower back as he reached to collect it and chuck it into the wash basin. It was time for sleep. As if reading his mind, his mobile buzzed once on the countertop. 

_Tomorrow. 1600. Hyde Park. -SH_

Sherlock’s insistence on signing his texts to Mycroft was a constant source of irritation, which was absolutely why he did it. Mycroft couldn’t imagine what Sherlock could possibly require his presence for, but as his brother rarely asked to see him, he could hardly avoid the engagement. He switched his phone off without responding; there was nothing to say, and neither of them stood on the ceremony of social graces. 

Mycroft binned the remaining pie, then turned from the kitchen and began stripping off his tie and jacket as he headed toward the stairs to his bedroom. Gregory Lestrade flashed into his mind again, and he suddenly burst into a half-run, taking the steps two at a time. The small rush of endorphins made his blood sing, and as he tossed the rest of his clothing onto a chair and stepped into the en-suite, a self-indulgent smile spread across his face. 

The rain shower was already set to the correct temperature, but tonight, Mycroft wanted a bit of extra heat. He twisted the lever, sighing loudly as hot water burst over his body. Ignoring the tightly woven bath poof hanging in the corner of the stall, he poured body wash into his hands and lathered. He did a perfunctory clean of his entire body, ridding himself of sweat and the demands of the day, then turned his attention to the real reason he was there.

Mycroft’s eyes closed, guilt over his thoughts eclipsed by the thoughts themselves. Detective Inspector Lestrade… Gregory… running warm lips and hot breath along the side of his neck, a firm fingertip rubbing hard circles into his nipple. Mycroft hissed at the contact, his own hands standing in for his imagination. Gregory teased until Mycroft began to get hard, then slipped his free hand over a soft stomach, past hips craving bruises, to wrap his palm gently, far too gently, around his waiting cock. He stroked loosely, waiting until Mycroft was fully erect, before sinking to his knees. Mycroft moaned as he pictured Gregory licking the tip of his cock, savouring the taste of his pre-come, before slowly opening his perfect pink lips and sliding Mycroft’s entire length into his mouth. He could feel Gregory’s throat moving around him, could see gorgeous brown eyes begin to water, before he pulled back, hollowing his cheeks and pressing his tongue to the underside of Mycroft’s pale cock. 

He watched with his mind’s eye as Gregory began to bob his salt and pepper head, swirling his tongue and making obscene noises of pleasure which vibrated through Mycroft’s body and brought him quickly to the brink. With one slick hand, Mycroft reached around his body, wasting no time and pushing two slender fingers into himself. The slight burn was fantastic, and he imagined bracing his other hand in Gregory’s soft, wet hair, feeling him plunge and suck at his cock while Mycroft himself reached for that place inside that would send him over the edge. It took a minute at this angle, but he didn’t mind, lost as he was in this gorgeous fantasy. When he finally grazed that sweet bundle of nerves, he pushed down, rubbing circles with increasing pressure until he was coming hard against the shower wall, crying out with pleasure. 

Mycroft knew his high would be short lived, so he washed the evidence of his activities away and toweled off quickly, slipping on only pants before climbing into bed. The guilt was attempting to creep back in, but he decided that even he deserved a reprieve sometimes. He pulled the shield of his duvet up around his shoulders, tucking his chin beneath the soft cotton. Behind closed eyes, Gregory smiled. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day. 

•§•

The following day had been uneventful—so much so, that Mycroft decided to eschew his usual means of transport and walk to his rendezvous with Sherlock. It was unseasonably warm, and the sun shone bright in the sky. If it hadn’t been for the crush of traffic against his ear drums, he might’ve forgotten he was in London entirely. His curiosity about this meeting’s purpose was tempered by the rhythmic sound of his steps against the pavement. There was something meditative about walking through the park; he really ought to make time for it more often. 

As he strolled, the automotive assault on his senses dulled from a roar to a whisper, replaced by the raucous sounds of a football game in progress on a nearby makeshift field. Men his own age were running in perfect form between marked trees, wearing two sets of matching jerseys. Mycroft consulted his pocket-watch, and upon finding himself early, decided it couldn’t hurt to stop and watch the match. It was for the sake of supporting the sport, of course, and not for the sweat glistening off exposed thighs. One set in particular had him beginning to think of last evening’s indulgence. A strong pair of legs, cut calves and that dip delineating a well-trained quadricep called out to him. Mycroft’s eyes trailed upward as the man jogged away down the field. He wasn’t particularly slim, but who needed that. Sweat stuck the pale blue jersey to his chest, and the curve of his neck was… familiar?

‘Lestrade is fit, isn’t he?’ Sherlock’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘Bit old for my taste, but for you…’

‘What do you want, Sherlock?’ He was not about to have a conversation about the object of his infatuation with anyone, let alone his nosy little brother. 

Sherlock held his eye, smirking but saying nothing as one of the goalies yelled to call halftime. Through his peripheral vision, he noticed a figure in blue jogging toward them. Sherlock’s grin grew wider as he caught the fleeting glimpse of panic in Mycroft’s eyes.

‘Boys,’ the Detective Inspector greeted them before squirting water out of a plastic bottle and over his hair. The grass must have become slick, because Mycroft’s foot slipped and he lunged forward, directly into the D.I.’s arms.

‘You alright there, mate?’

Mycroft felt the crimson tide of embarrassment rising up his neck, heating his cheeks, his nose, his ears. This was hell. All the moments of necessary evil had caught up to him and now he would spend an eternity in this moment, burning with the fire of the sun in the face of the most—and yet, least—average man he had ever met. 

‘You should know, he’s never like this,’ Sherlock interjected unhelpfully. ‘He’s usually far less human.’

‘I’m flattered.’ Lestrade’s brown eyes radiated a heat that caused Mycroft to flush impossibly harder. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘Us? Oh, nothing. We were just off to have a nice brotherly _chat_ and thought, what better place for it than the park. Running into you was purely a coincidence.’

Sherlock was a twat.

‘In that case,’ Lestrade looked to the men behind him, taking up positions, ‘I had better get back to it. I’ll call you next time I’ve got a tough one, eh, Sherlock? And Mycroft—good to see you again.’

‘Detective Inspector.’

‘Greg.’ The fire in Lestrade’s eyes sparked anew. ‘Please.’

As he jogged away, Mycroft could not help but eye those sculpted legs once more. He would not admit to himself that he hated to see him go, but he could not deny that he enjoyed watching him leave. That is, until his obnoxious, interfering little brother coughed behind him, barely concealing a laugh. 

‘Sherlock, so help me. If it wasn’t for mummy’s heart condition-’ He trailed off, walking back the way he’d come. 

‘Mummy doesn’t have a heart condition,’ Sherlock corrected, coming up quickly to fall into step beside Mycroft.

‘That’s what I call her fond regard for you.’ Mycroft smiled sarcastically. He removed his mobile from his trouser pocket and keyed in a code, turning the traffic signals to red. ‘Good day, Sherlock,’ he said with finality as he strode into the street crossing. As he reached the far side, his hand drifted into his breast pocket, fingering the single cigarette stashed there for emergencies. He pulled it out, tucking it into his fist as he walked. When the Diogenes came into view, Mycroft took a steadying breath and pitched the cigarette into a bin as he passed. _Not today._

It was only a few hours later when Mycroft’s mobile buzzed. He exited the main hall of the club and retired to his private offices—this was not a call he wished to miss. 

‘Mycroft Holmes.’ He hoped his greeting did not belie the uncharacteristic nervousness churning away in his stomach. That anything should make him, of all people, react in such a manner was surprising. He hated surprises. 

‘Mycroft,’ came the casual accent down the other end of the line, ‘it’s Greg Lestrade. Listen, I know this is a long shot, but any chance you’re free for drinks tonight?’

Mycroft’s tongue had suddenly tripled in size, filling his mouth and making it impossible to utter a single syllable. 

‘To talk about Sherlock, of course.’ Lestrade added quickly, sounding disappointed and a bit embarrassed. Mycroft’s heart jumped into his throat at the fact. 

‘I’m sure I can rearrange some things,’ Mycroft conceded, desperate to sound agreeable yet not over-eager. He couldn’t remember the last time he was desperate for anything. It was oddly exhilarating. ‘What time do you have in mind?’

‘Oh, yeah? Alright, um. Let’s say… eight? My place alright?’ He could hear Lestrade holding his breath in a manner which suggested instant regret. This was getting better by the moment. 

‘Eight o’clock it is. I’ll see you then.’

‘Wait!’ The shout came from the receiver as Mycroft pulled the phone away from his ear. ‘I haven’t given you the address.’

‘No need.’ 

‘Well… right. What did you say your job was again?’

‘I’ll see you at eight o’clock… Gregory,’ Mycroft added the name, smirking through the flush on his cheeks, and hanging up before he took a step too far. 

•§•

It was only seven fifty-eight when Mycroft laid his finger on the button to ring Gregory’s flat. He debated waiting on the steps the extra two minutes, but he knew how many scenarios of failure could force their way through his brain in such a short span of time. Instead, he pushed the square for the D.I.’s unit and consoled himself with the knowledge that he had selected the perfect bottle of wine for the occasion.

‘C’mon up,’ came a grainy voice over the intercom, and the front door latch snapped open loudly. 

The lift inspiring less than full confidence, Mycroft opted for the stairwell. It was appropriate that the Detective… Gregory lived on the third floor of the building—high enough to decrease the likelihood of a break-in, yet still well-placed for access by the fire brigade should events render that necessary. It should not have been impressive that someone in his position took these precautions, yet in Mycroft’s experience, it was rare for such a man to practice what he preached. 

When he reached the third floor corridor, a familiar face was already leaning out of the doorway, smiling. Gregory Lestrade, what a beautiful sight. For just one shining moment, Mycroft felt the overwhelming peace of coming home. He was waved into the flat with a broadened grin and a warm hand on his shoulder, which radiated through the fewer layers of changed clothing (Mycroft suspected his waistcoat and tie might be a bit _much,_ and there was no need for an overcoat that evening, what with the dawn of spring). The cold heart of him which had begun to melt weeks ago was now positively flooding over at the simple touch, and Mycroft knew he had better keep to a single glass of alcohol that evening or he would be, as his brother would so eloquently put it, a goner. 

‘Let me take your jacket,’ Gregory offered, not having removed his hand from Mycroft’s shoulder. He shrugged it off, and found he was being helped out of it by a far too gracious host. Perhaps this was a social call, indeed, Mycroft hoped against hope. 

‘I do hope this is to your liking, Gregory.’ Mycroft handed over the bottle of wine. He could see Gregory mentally attempting to pronounce the name of the vineyard, and took pity. ‘It’s a favorite of mine, just something simple for a Friday evening at home.’ 

‘Do you spend most of your Friday nights at home then?’ Gregory asked, popping the cork and pouring two rather full glasses. 

‘What with the demands of my position, I don’t often find myself—thank you,’ he said, accepting his glass, ‘I don’t often find myself in the position of entertaining socially.’

‘Or being entertained?’ Gregory’s eyes sparkled with a mischief that Mycroft had never seen in a man his age. It was strangely delightful. ‘Come in, have a seat. Make yourself at home.’

It was only then, as Mycroft looked down into his glass, that he noticed Gregory’s socked feet. He was distracted and slipping. This would never do. 

‘Should I…?’ he asked, gesturing to his own shoes. 

‘Only if you like. Might be more comfortable,’ Gregory suggested, then turned to settle himself onto the sitting room sofa. Mycroft was grateful for the odd bit of privacy. Removing one's shoes could be such a personal act, and his host’s attention to that brief vulnerability was intrinsically kind. Gregory beamed up at him once again as he padded his way across the carpeted space and took up residence on the far edge of the sofa. 

‘So,’ Mycroft began, feeling both greater ease and increased anxiety. ‘Sherlock.’

‘Yes, Sherlock,’ Gregory said, clearly surprised that Mycroft had actually chosen to bring up the agreed upon subject. ‘Tell me. Are you two much the same?’

‘I should hope not,’ Mycroft said, grinning into his drink. ‘He’s an amateur.’

The notes of Gregory’s laugh were sunlight hitting the morning haze on the water, the yellow-gold promise of a hot summer day. Mycroft was entranced, and stared for what was certainly an impolite amount of time before catching his gaze on the other man’s lips and hiding it in a sip of wine. 

‘I asked earlier, but you never answered. What is it you do, anyway, that gives you access to my address and prevents you from enjoying your evenings?’

‘I never said I didn’t enjoy them,’ Mycroft began, but Gregory licked his lips, and he lost his train of thought entirely.

‘Sherlock says you run the British Government.’

‘I’m a minor…’ 

Gregory’s eyebrow shot up, and a piece of silver-white hair fell over it. If Mycroft believed in such things, he might call it a miracle. 

‘Perhaps… not _so_ minor… official, yes. With politics being what they are, some constancy is needed behind the scenes.’

‘And you provide that constancy.’ Gregory nodded as though he understood. Far more importantly, however, he had placed his hand firmly on Mycroft’s knee. ‘Mycroft, there are aspects of my job I’m not at liberty to discuss. I have a strong suspicion that you’re in a similar situation? Right, then let’s agree—we accept the other’s informational blackouts, no hard feelings.’

‘Why-’ Mycroft was transfixed by the hand still lying on his thigh, by the thumb now moving in circles—‘would we be concerned with accepting-’

‘I didn’t invite you here to discuss your brother. You’ve just said he’s the amateur to your professional, so I assume you’ve more than deduced my interest. I’d like to kiss you now, if that’s alright.’

Mycroft raised his gaze to meet dark umber eyes, and found himself licking his own lips this time. 

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

It had been years since Mycroft had last felt the hot press of a mouth against his own, and this was far better than his memory had served. Lips sliding slowly, a soft tongue seeking entrance… he had forgotten how indulgent this simple act could be. He stretched out his right hand, feeling his glass settle on the end table, then gave himself fully to the kiss. The scent of plum and oak, the delicious slickness of Gregory’s lips as he sucked Mycroft’s tongue into his own mouth, earning a shallow moan that Mycroft found he very much wanted to give. His hands found the back of Gregory’s shirt, freshly laundered cotton soft and pliant beneath his fingertips, as that hand, firm grip and heat, slid higher and higher up Mycroft’s thigh. 

Knuckles pressed against his _yes, alright, very eager_ erection, and the metallic click of a zipper being drawn down elicited another moan, deeper and uttered directly into Gregory’s mouth. 

‘Mmm,’ he responded, his hum reverberating through Mycroft’s chest. ‘I’ve been dreaming about hearing you like this since we met.’

Gregory pushed his mouth harder against Mycroft’s as he made quick work of both their shirts, then pulled him to standing, unceremoniously shoving their trousers and pants to the floor and kicking out of his while Mycroft managed, through the grace of some god he must take the time to worship later, to step out of his with tremendous grace. It was short lived, however, as Gregory pushed him to lay back on the sofa, climbing between his bent knees and immediately slotting his cock along the length of Mycroft’s, to the very audible satisfaction of them both. 

He began rolling his hips down, long and hard. Mycroft’s head fell back, and he bit down on his fist to stifle the increasing volume of his cries. 

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ Gregory smiled, pulling the fist out of Mycroft’s mouth and replacing it with his own index finger, heavy on Mycroft’s tongue. ‘Oh fuck,’ his eyes rolled back and he snapped his hips even faster as Mycroft hollowed his cheeks and sucked, moans vibrating up his throat. ‘Fuck yes, oh god you have…’ Gregory drove down in shorter bursts as he came closer to orgasm, ‘no idea… how badly… I’ve wanted you!’

Mycroft summoned all of this coherent thought and used it to wrap his hand around their cocks, squeezing lightly enough to allow Gregory to fuck into his palm. The friction was almost unbearable after so much time without another body against his, and it was only seconds after the heat began pooling in Mycroft’s belly that he was spilling all over his bare body, sucking bruisingly at Gregory’s finger as it stifled his shouts of relief and pleasure. 

‘Fuck, yeah hold it just a minute longer for me… just like that… oh god, you’re so beautiful… yes… yes… YES!!!’ And with that, Gregory was coming all over Mycroft’s chest, painting stripes of white on already pale skin. It was like being marked, like being owned. Mycroft loved it.

Gregory pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s lips, then tipped himself off the sofa and walked off, the shallow sound of water running suggesting he would return with a wet flannel. As expected, he turned up half a minute later and began running the warm cloth over Mycroft’s naked torso. Every few inches, he placed a kiss to the clean skin left behind. 

‘You should know,’ Gregory began, his voice slightly hoarse, ‘I don’t do one night stands. In fact, I don’t do friends with benefits at all.’

Mycroft smiled, his chest filling with a different sort of heat as Gregory leaned in and kissed him tenderly. 

‘I didn’t take you for that sort of man, no,’ Mycroft whispered against his lips.

‘What sort of man did you take me for, then?’ Gregory beamed at him, pulling back and scratching at where his nicotine patch had left marks on his forearm.

‘The sort of man who shares his cigarette after sex.’

Gregory laughed, filling the room with improbable sunlight, and pulled the pack out of the end table drawer. 

‘How did you know?’ He asked, then lit up and handed the cigarette over. Mycroft accepted it and took a grateful drag, inhaling happiness and freedom. He ran a hand through soft silver hair, and watched fondly as Gregory’s smile crept back into place. 

‘Where there’s smoke…’


End file.
